


In The Space Between Moments

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Future, And Dash is not good with sharing, And Then he gets rescued, And he deals with it, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Attack of A Minor, Basically, Blood and Injury, Bob Parr is a Good Dad, Bob Parr tries, Dash gets kidnapped, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except recovery takes time, Exhaustion, Food Issues, Future Fic, Gen, Helen Parr is A Good Mom, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Is A lot, Jack-Jack is Fabulous, Kidnapped Dash Parr, Kidnapping, Minor Injuries, OKAAAAAAAAY, Older Parr Family, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Serious Injuries, Starvation, That things really aren't okay in the trauma department, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is going to be a whoozie, Trauma, Violet is a Good Sister, Vomiting, Wounds, and That's great!, and i love him for it, better safe than sorry, i guess, i think, it's not as bad as it seems, okay..., that, throwing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Dash curls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in the pocket of air there, trying to block the whole world out. Down the hall, he knows his siblings are sleeping, and down the stairs his parents are snoring away.He knows, he knows-But his heartbeat is still thrumming too fast, and Dash can’tkeep up,he can’t keep up and he needs the whole world to justslow down,just for a moment, just forsecond,so that he canbreathe.Dash Parr is fourteen years old. Two weeks ago, he was kidnapped. One week ago, he was rescued. He knows, logically, that this is perfectly irrational, but what his mind knows his body does not, and he keeps waking up in the middle of the night with a hummingbird heartbeat and panic filling up all the space in his lungs, leaving almost no room for air, and for the life of him he can’t get it to stop.





	In The Space Between Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Okaaaaaay
> 
> I  
> Am not sure where this came from.
> 
> BUT HERE YOU GO YIPPEE.
> 
> *******PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!*********

Dash wakes up, heart pounding too loud in his chest and breathing fracturing somewhere between his mouth and his lungs. The room is dark, and for a second he thinks he never got out. That he’s still back there, that he’s still _trapped-_

But no- no. This is his room, those are his curtains, and he can just see the outlines of his posters on the walls. Underneath his fingers, the sheets are soft from use, and they are _his sheets,_ and he grips them tight with a white-knuckled grip and thinks _This is real, this is real, this is real_ until it starts to feel like it might be true.

There weren't any sheets in the cell.

There wasn’t much of anything. Just cold hard cement and metal, and a lingering chill that sunk into your bones.

It’s obvious that this is an entirely different place. It’s _obvious_ that he’s back home, that he was rescued, that he is _safe_.

Why, then, is his heart still pounding at thousands of beats per minute? Why are his hands still gripping his sheets like they might disappear at any moment, and his eyelids refusing to close, as if blinking might mean he would find himself back _there,_ as if- _as if-_

It’s not rational, none of this is rational, and yet Dash’s breath keeps coming in and out oddly hollow and terribly fast- too fast, maybe, and the idea that _he can’t keep up_ is so surreal he almost wants to dismiss it entirely- and his heart keeps pounding in his chest like a drum, like a hummingbird, so hard that it almost hurts.

_This is ridiculous,_ he thinks, and he means it. He does. It’s been an entire _week_ since he had gotten out, since Mr. Incredible had smashed through walls of steel and stone like they were nothing, something like fear on his face, something like anger, something _dangerous_ in the thin lines that formed his features and hardened his gaze.

Dash remembers shifting from where he had curled up in the corner of the room, remembers looking up and trying- _trying,_ being the key word, because everything _hurt_ and he was so _cold_ and so, so _hungry_ and so, so very _weak_ \- to reach out for him. Remembers croaking out, “ _Dad,”_ and familiar hands tearing through metal shackles like paper, picking him up and curling him close, close, so careful and gentle and _scared._

Remembers thinking, _warm,_ remembers thinking, _safe,_ remembers passing out somewhere in the space between one moment and the next.

Dash Parr is fourteen years old. It’s been a week since he had gotten rescued after being kidnapped and held captive by an insane super villain with a penchant for human anatomy and a curiosity for how powers worked, who was sick in the head and didn’t understand limits or the fact that superspeed takes _fuel,_ that Dash can’t run on empty, that Dash can’t-

_He can’t-_

(The villain did understand. He did. That’s the most terrifying part, because Dash knows that there are bad people in the world but for some reason he never expected anyone to just- _starve_ another human being like it meant nothing, like it was as simple as withholding a bowl of milk from a stray cat on the street.)

Dash curls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in the pocket of air there, trying to block the whole world out. Down the hall, he knows his siblings are sleeping, and down the stairs his parents are snoring away.

He knows, he knows-

But his heartbeat is still thrumming too fast, and Dash can’t _keep up,_ he can’t keep up and he needs the whole world to just _slow down,_ just for a moment, just for _second,_ so that he can _breathe._

Dash Parr is fourteen years old. Two weeks ago, he was kidnapped. One week ago, he was rescued. He knows, logically, that this is perfectly irrational, but what his mind knows his body does not, and he keeps waking up in the middle of the night with a hummingbird heartbeat and panic filling up all the space in his lungs, leaving almost no room for air, and for the life of him he can’t get it to stop.

 

* * *

 

“I made your favourite!”

Dash smiles up at his mom, and it feels like plastic on his cheeks.

“Thanks!”

Jerkily, he picks up his knife and fork and pulls the heaping plate of food towards him and starts stuffing it in his face, because that’s _normal_ behavior, because that’s where he’s supposed to be, because he doesn’t want to worry anyone, doesn’t want to make anyone think he’s _weak._

Dash is not weak. He’s not. Really. He’s just- he’s just-

_Stupid,_ he thinks, _stupid, stupid, can’t even lie to yourself._

The food tastes like ash on his tongue and his stomach keeps rolling unpleasantly. Dash sort of wants to scream in frustration because it's one thing for his body to betray him while he’s sleeping and quite another for it to betray him while he’s trying to eat dinner with his family.

God, he just wants to feel normal again. He just wants to feel _safe_ again.

He feels like he is broadcasting his weakness to the whole wide world, and it makes him jittery and anxious and he doesn’t understand _why._

He doesn't understand any of this. He doesn’t understand why he wakes up with panic thrumming in his veins, why his food won’t accept the sustenance it so desperately needs, why he still flinches and tenses at random touches and sounds. This has never happened before, not beyond the first couple of nights after a really bad day, and even then all it really took to get him back on track was like, eating out the fridge and pulling a prank and going for a run. And it leaves him feeling lost and frustrated and-

And-

And a little scared, if he’s going to be honest with himself.

After he puts away enough food for it to not be suspicious, he excuses himself to the bathroom.

Right on time, his stomach heaves, and ducks his face into the porcelein and throws everything back up.

He closes his eyes and rests his head against the cold metal, not even caring about the stench. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s sweating, that fine tremors or shaking his entire body, that his breath is hitching oddly in his throat.

He feels overheated and chilled all over. He feels sick and tired and nauseous, and he feels like he wants to eat something and _not_ throw up, please, _please-_

Dash remembers curling up in a corner of his cell, right leg on _fire_ from where the bastard had broken it, trying to heal and not having any sustenance to heal _with._ Remembers going for _days_ with only the smallest amount of food and water, the way his stomach contracted unnaturally small, the way it felt like it was eating itself for hunger. Remembers the way his metabolism burned through calories and then through fat like it was nothing, until Dash could count his ribs through his torn up costume.

Remembers, remembers-

He spits foul tasting saliva into the toilet and shakily stands on two feet. He feels drained and hungry, and he’ll have to sneak into the kitchen and steal some food later on tonight, a smaller meal that he can actually handle, that his body won’t betray him over.

He breathes, breathes, flushes and then closes the lid, sits on it.

There are goosebump up and down his arms, and Dash rubs at them fiercely even as his eyes begin to water. He won’t cry, he won’t, but his breath is hitching like he’s about to and he feels _awful_ and-

Someone knocks on the bathroom door.

“Dash? Are you _still_ in there?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks. He swallows, and tries again, “Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute, Jack-Jack.”

“Okaaaay- if you say so. Mom says she wants help with after dinner clean-up!”

There’s the distinct sound of his younger brother teleporting, and Dash rests his head against the mirror and breathes and breathes and _breathes._

 

* * *

 

It's gym class, and it's the wrestling unit, and Dash is goofing off, snorting at something his friend says while he “accidentally” sends a spitball flying at the back of another boy's head. His fellow seventh grader rolls his eyes and shoots him the finger- sneakily, so the coach doesn't see- and Dash grins and high fives his friend behind him.

Then it's his turn to go on the mat. He's pretty small, compared to the rest of the class, but he's also strong from years of running and- though the rest of the group is unaware of this- carrying people to safety. He's not worried, not really, and even if he gets pinned he knows how to get out pretty easily and it's not like anyone would particularly _care._

It's seventh grade gym class, not a televised tournament. The stakes aren't high.

So Dash gets on to the mat and the whistle gets blown and the pair of them begin to wrestle, the coach yelling out advice and corrections as they go, and this is _fine_ and Dash even manages a couple of jokes with his wrestling partner that makes the rest of the class laugh.

But then the other guy trips and falls down and Dash is falling down with him, and Dash gets- pinned. Pinned, pinned, two arms on his wrists holding him down, and suddenly there's ice water on his veins and everything is _frozen,_ frozen, can't move can't think can't even _breathe_ , and he should be able to get out of this loose hold in his _sleep_ but he _can't-_

“Let go of me,” he says, no emotion in his voice, no inflection, and the guy laughs and leans heavier and says- something. His voice is teasing and light but Dash can't hear the particular words over the rushing in his ears.

_You cannot attack a civilian,_ he tells himself, but his muscles bunch up tight, ready to spring with a sort a fear induced craze that he feels in his freaking _bones._

It makes the world around him seem hollow and indistinct, almost otherworldly, and Dash doesn’t know how to deal with that, so he doesn't deal with it at all.

Perhaps the coach recognizes something's not right, senses just how close Dash is to flipping the hell out, because he blows his whistle and pulls the other boy off him and helps him to his feet.

“You alright there, Parr? You're looking a bit pale…”

“I'm fine,” he says, and the whole wide world seems so far away, “just got dizzy there for a sec. Think my blood sugar is low or something.”

The teacher nods, slowly.

“Why don't you sit the rest of class out, just in case.”

And Dash wants to protest. Wants to say that he's fine, because he is, he is, the cold has receded and he can move and there's no reason to worry, really, there isn't.

Except- except maybe the cold hasn't receded all the way, not really, because even though he can move, his hands have started to shake, tremors going up and his spine and his fingers practically _vibrating_ with a sort of nervous energy that spikes and dips and thrums somewhere deep inside him.

It makes him want to jam them into his pockets, makes him want to hide, but gym shorts don't _have_ pockets and so instead he awkwardly tucks them under his armpits and jerkily nods.

The walk to the bench is blurry, and he feels like he's in a daze. It's as if somehow a wire went unplugged, and his connection to the real world somehow got jammed, like watching television without any sound.

He stares at his hands while he waits for the lesson to end, tries to make them stop vibrating. They stubbornly keep at it- and this is _ridiculous,_ because Dash hasn't been this out of control of his powers since he was _seven-_ and he sort of wants to yell and he sort of wants to punch something and instead all he can do is put his fingers under his thighs and _wait._

There are no bruises on his wrists- his healing factor is way too fast for that. It's been two weeks since being rescued and the only physical difference from his present condition to before the kidnapping is that he's a bit thinner. (In fact, the school just thinks he was out with the bad case of the flu.) But Dash looks at his hands and remembers the terrifying _panic_ that had gripped him the minute he was pinned, the way it froze him solid, the way it made him feel as if metal was still wrapped around his wrists too tight, as if they were still bleeding and ragged and raw, torn up by the way he had pulled and twisted at them even chained, because he hadn't been able to _move,_ had been _trapped_ , _trapped, can't run, can't get out oh god oh god oh god-_

Dash remembers the metal had been cold, ice cold. He wonders if the cold had sunken into his bones, because somehow he _still_ feels like he is moments away from freezing, from his blood becoming ice and every bone inside of him shattering.

After class, he asks one of his friends if he can borrow a jacket. He gets a weird look, because usually _he's_ the one who never gets bothered by chilly weather, but the other boy concedes.

Dash pulls the hoodie over his shoulders and huddles into it, but the world still seems grey and frozen and far away, and for some reason he can't decipher his eyes are wet and stinging.

_Some hero,_ he thinks, _some hero, crying like a two year old, some h e r o-_

He raises trembling hands to his eyelids and presses hard, hard enough that bright spots light up in the inky blackness, hard enough that that minor pain becomes real, and breathes in the space between one moment and the next.

 

* * *

 

Dash runs, sometimes. Puts on his costume and runs until water and land all blend in together, until countryside and city streets merge into one, until all that is left are his pumping legs and the sound of his breathing in his head, _in and out, in and out._

He runs until he can’t anymore, until his muscles tremble and clench and _stop_ at their own violation, spasming and forcing him down, down, down until he’s falling and gasping and hungry and tired.

He’s doing it more, now, than he used to. It’s the only thing that seems to get him out of his own head, that make all the thoughts and worries and panic just _stop._ It lets him breathe, if only for a moment, and leaves him out of breath.

This time, he finds himself collapsed in some farmer’s field several states away. His whole body is trembling, slightly, and Dash welcomes it with some sort of grim satisfaction, because _that_ at least, is a normal reaction to overexertion.

He rolls over, looks at the sky. There are clouds, up there, white and fluffy and sliding ever slowly across the sky. Dash watches them until new ones come to replace them, watches them as they darken and specs of rain begin to escape from them and rain down, down, down.

(He’s still trembling, and that is _not_ normal, but he ignores that. He just needs to ignore all this and eventually it will all just go away. Really, _really-)_

He watches until suddenly the steady pitter patter of drops is interrupted by a forcefield between him and the sky and an unimpressed look on his sister’s face.

Dash blinks up at her, and she blinks back. She’s wearing combat boots and jeans, and her hoodie is bright pink. She raises an eyebrow and he closes his eyes, letting his head tip back into the mud.

“You know mom hates it when you run out like this, especially with… you know… what happened.”

He nods, still not opening his eyes. It’s been three weeks since he was rescued. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to _think,_ and he hears Violet sigh.

“You could leave a note, ya know. It would stop her from sending random supers to check on you.”

“You’re not random,” he croaks.

She huffs.

“Yeah, well, you got lucky this time. You’re only a few hours out from my apartment.”

Dash nods again. The rain keeps falling down, and it makes odd pinging noises against the force field. He can feel Violet’s eyes on him, but he refuses to acknowledge the gaze. Maybe, if he waits long enough, she’ll just leave him be.

It doesn’t work out like that.

She nudges him with the toe of her boot, shifting his comfortable position.

“C’mon, dweeb, let’s get you some food.”

He doesn't want to. He’s not hungry, just tired- _just so, so tired of everything, of the fear, of the panic, of waking up each night thinking that he never got out, that he’s still trapped, that there’s nowhere to run and no air to breathe-_ but Violet nudges him again with her boot and he grudgingly gets up anyways.

The air smells like fertilizer, the air smells like rain, and Dash breathes deep and lets it all go while he still can.

His sister walks them back to her car, keeping a forcefield above their heads to block out the rain. She probably shouldn’t, because she’s not in costume, but they’re in a field in the middle of nowhere and there isn’t anyone around, and neither of them can really bring themselves to care.

She hands him a stack of clean clothes when they get to her car- some second hand thing she had gotten from one of Mom’s old friends and renovated- and for a moment he just stares at them, completely blanking as to what to do with them.

Violet flicks him on the forehead and tells him to change, and Dash blinks, blinks, forces himself back into reality, and goes to the trunk to do just that.

They pull into a McDonald’s drive through and she orders him seven happy meals, and part of him wants to protest because he really, really _doesn’t_ want to throw up again, not tonight, but Violet looks at him and he starts working on the first burger anyways.

She steals a packet of fries and grabs hold of one of the stupid toys, tearing it of its plastic imprisonment and challenging him to a duel. Dash rolls his eyes but raises some sort of sparkly pony anyways to defend himself when she begins whaling on him.

As far as older siblings go, Dash figures he could have done worse.

They pull out of the parking lot thirty minutes later and Dash’s stomach is rolling unpleasantly, but for the first time in a long time he feels calm. He knows that tomorrow he’ll have to run back home and deal with his mother’s scoldings and school and all the rest, but for now, for now-

For now, Dash rests his head against the glass of the window, watches the glow of the streetlamps whizz pass, and falls asleep somewhere in the space between one moment and the next.

 

* * *

 

Dash is walking home from the local grocery store, laden down with last minute foodstuffs for dinner, and someone says something behind him and he- flinches. Just for a moment, fingers going numb and groceries dropping to the sidewalk, because just for a second he’s utterly convinced that the voice belongs to- belongs to-

But it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it belongs to a young man pulling at the hand of his boyfriend, and Dash takes a deep breath and holds it before leaning down and picking the bags back up.

But that split second of utter frozen fear sticks with him, burns in his nerves all the way home, and he’s jumping at shadows and he’s holding his breath at random noises and this is ridiculous, this is _ridiculous,_ it’s been a whole month and he’s still like _this,_ so scared and stupid and _weak_ , and he wants to scream and instead all he can do is _shake._

It’s just so frustrating because it feels like he’s not in control of his own body, which makes him feel exposed and vulnerable, which in turn makes everything so much _worse._

And Dash can’t stop it, can’t stop any of it, and he just wants someone to tell him it’ll all be okay but at the same time he’s so very terrified as coming off as _weak,_ because it was his fault he got captured, his stupid fault that his family had to endanger themselves to get him out of trouble, his _stupid, flipping fault-_

He just wants to get past this. He just wants to live his life and put this whole thing behind him. He just wants-

He just wants the world to slow down for a second. Just for a second, _please-_

The whole wide world just keeps spinning like nothing has ever happened, like he hadn’t been alone and caught and terrified, like everything’s _fine_ now, and he can’t keep up. He’s trying, he’s trying, but _he can’t._

Dash is farther away from fine as he has ever been, and he has no idea as to how to close the distance.

_Some hero,_ he thinks, _some h e r o -_

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in the space between one moment and the next, something breaks.

Dash stops sleeping, stops really eating beyond what was necessary to keep his family from being worried, and stops running. He feels like a ghost in his own life, going through the motions, and the only thing he feels is tired and cold.

He works out in his bedroom at nights, or reads one of the million books people keep on insisting he should read and yet had never gotten to before, or watches old reruns of his favourite shows.

His grades start slipping, just a little bit. His mom shoots him more and more concerned looks, and the placating smiles he gives in return feel more and more like they’re going to crack his face in half.

Maybe he lost some crucial part of himself in that cold cell, maybe something broke and it can’t get fixed. Maybe he’s just never going to be warm again and he’s just going to have to learn to live with it.

He’s working on homework one night in the little study room that his mom had set up, and somewhere in the space between one math problem and the next his exhaustion catches up to him and he falls asleep.

He wakes up, and this is not his room and this is not his bed and there are no soft sheets between his fingers and it’s dark, it’s dark and it’s cold and Dash thinks _oh god, oh god_ and then he really stops thinking anything at all except a sort of blind _panic_ that fills up very offrice and has him stumbling, stumbling, shaking all over and scrambling back, back, back, breathing too loud in the silence and there’s no air in his lungs, no air at all-

Dash tries to breath, and it feels like he is drowning.

He trips over- _something,_ and then he goes crashing, a stinging pain in his leg and disorientation all around him, and he yelps and scrambles backwards and there’s no _air,_ why is there no _air-_

_I’m going to die,_ he thinks, a sort of numb roar in his head, _there’s no air and I‘m going to d i e-_

There’s a small distinct warping of the space time continuum and suddenly Jack-Jack is in front of him.

“We meet again, Sir Racoon- Oh, it’s you.”

Dash closes his eyes and presses his forehead against his knees, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Uh- Dash? Are you okay?”

Something touches his shoulder and Dash sort of just- jerks. Hard. Rams himself right against the wall and doesn’t even really register the blossoming pain, because _oh gods oh gods oh gods not again please not again he can’t do this again-_

“Dash…?”

_Stop it,_ he thinks, somewhere far away, _you’re scaring him. Stop scaring him._

But he can’t. His breath rasps in his throat, and nothing comes in, nothing comes out.

His chest heaves and heaves and heaves, and there’s no air, no air at all, it feels like he’s been running a million miles and he’s trembling all over, torso constricted tight and heartbeat pounding in his head. It feels like he’s pinned to the mat and the world has gone cold and far away and everything has narrowed down to the too tight pressure weighing down on him, too close, too much, everywhere and nowhere all at once. It feels like eating too much and throwing up, trembling and sweating and overheating even as goosebumps break out all over his skin.

There is ice in his veins and no air in his lungs and reality is sinking into a blackhole and Dash is _drowning_ in open air.

Someone- moves in front of him, and Dash flinches back, roughly, and distorted words reach his ears without him ever hearing them.

“Dash- Dash, I’m- I’m gonna go get Dad. I don’t think, I don’t think you’re supposed to be vibrating like that- uh- stay-- Stay here.”

There’s a pop, and a fizz, like a dying fire cracker, and then there is nothing and he’s just- alone.

Dash covers his face in his hands and curls up small, tries to not take up any space at all, tries to stop his very _being_ on this plane of existence.

Suck the air in and blow it out. It’s basic principles of nature. But for some reason no air is forthcoming and all Dash can seem to do is shake and shake, and every time he blinks colour swirls too bright under his eye lids

( _Vibrating,_ his little brother had said, and Dash _is_ vibrating, he is, he is trembling all over in a complete blur of motion and molecules and the rest of the world is fading away as his every bodily function just starts to get faster and _faster and faster_ -)

_I’m going to die,_ he thinks, vaguely, all at once, and there’s too much pressure and this shouldn’t be so hard but it is it is it _is-_

The man who had kidnapped him had been fat and slow, but incredibly, incredibly smart, and Dash had run ahead and slammed into glass and then there had been a bang as the see-through enclosure closed itself and then there had been gas- sickly sweet and impossible to breath-  and then there had been-

There had been-

There had been pain and cruel smiles and crueler touches. There had been tests and experiments and cold cement floors and the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of water on metal. There had been flinches and meaty fingers lifting Dash’s swollen jaw, violating and awful and _wrong._ There had been hunger- _so much hunger, tearing him apart_ \- and a sort of shallow breathing that comes from broken ribs and all the agony it implies.

(Dash feels like he started breathing shallowly in that prison and never remembered to stop. He feels like he’s been breathing shallowly to conserve air that is no longer there. He feels like he’s been running on empty for a hundred miles, and now he’ll never run again.)

_Focus, focus,_ but he can’t, he can’t- there’s just, he’s just-

There’s black encroaching the corners of his vision, and his chest _burns_ and his eyes are wet and-

And-

Someone slams into the room.

Dash can’t see who it is through the blur in his vision, can’t even _think_ for all the racket in his brain, and all he can do is curl up smaller and press himself against the wall, and not for the first time he wishes he had his sister’s powers, that he could turn invisible and block the whole world out, that he could-

That he could-

That-

_He can’t b r e a t h e-_

Lightheaded and nauseous and on the brink of collapsing, vibrating so hard it feels like its rattling his brain. He’s never felt so out of control. He’s never-

He can’t keep up, and it’s terrifying.

The world is going too fast for him to keep up, and it’s so, so terrifying.

Someone touches his arm, makes a hissing sound and withdraws quickly, shaking it out.

Dash hadn’t even realized that the figure had gotten so close, hadn’t even realized that they were _right there,_ hadn’t even realized-

_No air. There’s no air, why is there no air!?_

“Dash.”

Something freezes inside of him, and he shakes his head against his knees, trembles and vibrates all the harder.

_Go away,_ he wants to say, but there aren't any words left. _Leave me alone._

There’s talking, there’s talking and he can’t hear it, his ears are buzzing and his heartbeat in pounding too loud and-

And-

Someone grabs him and pulls him close, presses him tight to themselves.

Dash freezes and then- pushes. Struggles. He doesn’t want this, let him go, c’mon, c’mon, _please let me go, please, please I don’t want to be here anymore-_

But someone is shouting, loud and tired and so very _concerned,_ and Dash blinks against someone’s collarbone and-

“DASH! Dash- hey, hey buddy it’s me, it’s me, It’s Daddy, c’mon kiddo, c’mon kiddo, you’re okay-

_Everything hurt and he was so cold and so, so very weak-_

“ _Dad?”_

The word cracks in his throat all wrong, no air left to say it, no voice for it to come out with. It’s the rasp of a breath and hardly there at all and all he can do is tremble all over and try to breath and _beg_ that he’s right, please let him be right, because he doesn’t think he can handle anything else, right now-

_(Familiar hands picking him up and curling him close, close, so careful and gentle and scared._ Dash doesn’t remember much, but he remembers _that-)_

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me kiddo. I need you to breathe for me, okay? Can you breathe with me?”

His dad is holding him. His dad is holding him, and he still can’t breathe- chest expanding and contracting with no air getting in or out- but it’s _enough,_ and Dash curls up small as he can in his father’s chest and scrambles with shaking, trembling, vibrating fingers for purchase on the back of the older man’s shirt.

It shouldn’t work. Dash is fourteen years old and most teenage boys don’t fit on their father’s lap. But it _does,_ because Dash is built for running and his father is built for stopping trains, and he has never been more grateful.

Shaking, shaking, shaking, falling apart, and his dad just holds him close and keeps him all together.

He’s breathing, Dash thinks vaguely, staring at the legs of a desk chair. The older man is breathing, in and out, in and out, moving his smaller frame with every inhale and exhale, and Dash shakes and tremors and tries to breathe with him.

His eyes are wet and stinging, he registers, somewhere between one shaky breath and another, and then he’s pressing his face in the crink between his father’s neck and shoulders and just- crying.

Bob Parr holds him, and Dash doesn’t know it, but there are friction burns from the vibrations all up and down his arms and torso.

He doesn’t let go, and Dash doesn’t let go, either.

At some point, Dash says, “I don’t- I don’t know what’s _happening_ to me. _I don’t- I- I-”_

And Bob Parr holds him and tells him it’s all going to be okay, he’s going to be fine, they’re gonna figure this out, _I got you, I got you, you’re going to be okay, sport, you’re going to be okay-_

Dash just holds on tight and close and thinks _warm,_ thinks _safe,_ and for the first time in a very long time, thinks he might be able to believe it. And somewhere in the space between one moment and the next, he learns again how to breathe.


End file.
